💋 - fingertips
He has never known defeat such as this. There is anger thrumming even now in the pulse of his wrist where Bard holds him fast; lurid in ways the red lining of his robe ( so silken and soft in it’s fold and fall under the torchlight that it appears wet —— the inside of a mouth, a place to dip for sport ) shall never be. Spellbound, the tension in his brow smooths beneath the borrowed fever of a thing most intimate, feeling breath and heat against the pads of his long fingers as though his mortal were a supplicant and he the avatar of a deity only just unearthed. With his temper doused, Thranduil’s silence eats itself, the Elvenking dipping his crownless head as though it may aid eyesight that could be no better. “—— What is this?”
GET PERSONAL. // 💋 : smooch there!
